Gone Baby Gone
by princesswingnut
Summary: The Winchesters never leave a job unfinished. Tag to Houses of the Holy, from the perspective of a girl Dean saved. Her thoughts when she sees his face on the news,her thoughts when he shows up on her doorstep. NO romance, just an outsider POV. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

SUMMARY: The Winchesters never leave a job unfinished. Tag to "Houses of the Holy", from the perspective of a girl Dean saved. Her thoughts when she sees his face on the 11 o'clock news--her thoughts when he shows up on her doorstep. NO romance, just a look at how Dean and Sam appear to the outside world.

DISCLAIMER: Obviously I don't own them. Or I wouldn't be here.

---

Hannah didn't really feel safe until the she shut the door behind her and stood with the cool wood against her back, expelling the horror of the day in one long breath. She couldn't stay still for long, her body was still tensed up and terrified, twitchy with trauma; she walked through the house quickly, turning on every light she owned, every buzzing fluorescent and table lamp. She didn't want to be in the dark tonight.

She changed into her oldest sweats and curled up in an armchair, tucked into the smallest ball possible, hidden under a thick winter blanket. She turned the TV on but she wasn't watching—she just needed the noise. Needed not to be alone. Her eyes were not on the flickering screen, and her thoughts were back in that car, the blood-pumping moment when she'd realized she was in very deep trouble.

_Rape_. She said it quietly in her mind, allowed herself to say the word for the first time, let it shudder down her spine and send tears brimming up in her eyes. David had tried to _rape_ her—it was so unreal. These things happened to other people, distant people in distant black-and-white news stories. She remembered the instant she knew something was wrong, the look jumping up into his eyes like a lit flame, and he'd looked so _crazy_, so wild and angry-lost that it had made her catch her breath. The streetlight glinting off the blade in his hand.

He had seemed so _normal_.

She'd just gotten out of a relationship and her friends were _oh_ so eager to set her up again, gleefully playing matchmaker to her lonely single state. She'd protested and blushed, yelled and pleaded, but she hadn't been able to stop the Inevitable Blind Date. They said it would be good for her. They said he was a nice guy. They said it would help her recover. A hysterical little giggle burst out of her at the thought—_recovery_, right. She wasn't going to step out of her house for a week.

Still, she'd been relieved when she'd seen him for the first time, standing on her doorstep with a shy smile and an armful of flowers. Reasonably good-looking, not horribly deformed or gibberingly crazy. Normal. She'd thought that perhaps this night wouldn't be so bad after all. Just a date, a trip to the movies with a nice guy. No big deal.

Then he'd taken a wrong turn; she'd thought he was lost, and she'd almost suggested directions, but then he'd stopped the car. And he'd kissed her. She was used to boys who came on too strong, and it wasn't like she was some kind of prude, but she didn't want him to get ideas, not on the first date, so she'd pushed him away, cushioning her rejection with a laugh. A gentle 'no'. Nothing to worry about. But then there was that _look_, the craziness and the hunger. He'd leaned over and _hit_ her, backhanding her hard enough to snap her head back and she'd tasted blood, copper red in her mouth. It had spiraled out of control so fast.

She snuggled deeper into her blanket and let out a small sob, a pathetic little noise that she could only make now that no one could hear her. She was about to let herself go completely, release all the trapped terror into hysterical tears, let herself lose it like she'd wanted to all night—but something on the TV screen caught her eye.

She sat up straight, staring intently at the screen. A large picture of a man was plastered over her set, a stark mug shot with a word on his chest saying WANTED, saying this man is dangerous, armed, murderer, fugitive. He had short brown hair, hazel eyes, an attractive square jaw—and she knew him. He was the man who had saved her. He'd saved her life, and here he was on the eleven o'clock news.

At first, the car window breaking had just been another part of the horror, she hadn't realized there was someone there except David. She was too busy fighting for her life, too hysterical to notice, but then arms reached into the car and grabbed her attacker, smashing his head into the steering wheel, forcing him to let her go. Her head screamed for her to _get out_ and she did, scrabbling frantically for the door handle while her mysterious savior punched David again and again, blood splattering from his nose onto the dashboard. She was screaming, crying, hysterical, and she couldn't seem to take ten steps from the car even though she knew what was in there, what had almost happened.

Her rescuer slid over the hood and grabbed her hand, other hand on the side of her face, searching her eyes to see if she was okay, strangely concerned considering she'd never seen this man before in her life. "Are you okay?" he was saying, rough voice barely penetrating her hysteria. She knew she should answer, tell him she was fine, she was okay _now_, now that he'd saved her, that she should thank him and hug him and swear her life to him, but all she could manage was, "Thank God! Oh, thank God!"

He didn't even hear her: the car had started again behind them, and there was an angry screech of tires as David sped away—got away. He didn't leave her, but he started swearing fervently, his eyes on the escaping attacker "Damn in! Are you sure you're okay? Do you have a cell phone?" She couldn't answer, choked with sobs, but she nodded and he understood. "Call 911!" he commanded, then he dropped her hands and sprinted to his car, fearless and terrifying, an avenging angel.

And now she was supposed to believe he was some kind of a criminal. Dean Winchester, her TV was telling her, bank robbery, grand larceny, first-degree murder. How was it possible? He'd saved her _life_, she was sure of it. Perhaps he'd been some kind of criminal confederate of David's, killing him for personal reasons—but no, that didn't make sense. Why would he have saved her, cared about her? Ninety-nine percent of people in the world would never have done what he had; he was some kind of incredible dark vigilante, saving her life and then disappearing into the night. But—murder? She didn't know what to think.

She didn't have much time to consider it—the doorbell rang, flat two-tone sound breaking into her musings and making her jump, irreversibly paranoid. She didn't move for a full minute, shivering deer in headlights, but she knew she had to get the door. It was probably her mother, worried sick and bearing a casserole. It was probably her friends, hysterically apologetic and wondering if she was okay. She had to get up and get the door.

She padded fearfully to her entryway and turned the doorknob, white-knuckle gripping her phone in her pocket, 911 already predialed just in case. Her mind played a thousand horrifying possibilities like a filmstrip behind her eyes, but she wasn't expecting the one she got:

Dean Winchester was standing on her doorstep.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This will probably be just a simple little two-chapter fic. Nothing special, just something that I wanted to write. Reviews are like Christmas morning, so if you feel inclined...


	2. Chapter 2

Dean Winchester was standing on her doorstep.

The Wanted poster flashed through her mind and she reacted with the reflexes of a recent victim, screaming and slamming the door in his face. He was quicker than her panic—he got a boot in the door and stopped it closing, shoving it back open with the ease of natural muscle. He was into her house and moving toward her with a predatory sort of pounce, and she was flashing back to David, screaming hysterically as she tried to get away from him.

His hands were up and he looked worried, frustrated. "Hey, calm down!" he said in a quick rough baritone, moving a few steps backward. "Calm down, I'm not going to hurt you! I'm not going to hurt you!"

She was huddled away against the wall, pushing against it with her back as if she could slide straight through to get away from him. Her mind registered his 'calm down's but she could not calm down, could only think of hands on her neck and blades in the streetlight. Her hands were shaking but she was holding onto her cell phone with a death grip, life-or-death lifeline. "I'm calling the police!" she screamed at him, her heart beating out _bank robbery grand larceny murder __murder__murder_

Suddenly he was right on her, grabbing her wrist, not painfully but tight enough that she had no chance of using her phone. "I would really rather you didn't," he said, exasperated, pleading. "Look—what's your name?"

"Hannah," she said automatically, barely breathing with him so close, so close she could smell him, leather and smoke and soap.

"Okay, Hannah, I need you to calm down. I'm not going to hurt you, do you understand? I'm going to let go of you now—can you just…try not to freak out? Please." He plucked the phone out of her hand and released her, retreating quickly away until he was standing by the door, eyeing her nervously as if he thought she might explode.

She tried to bring her heartbeat back to normal, telling herself _stop freaking out! This is not __David,__ this is the guy who _saved_ you. He could have already snapped you in half if he wanted to, so _calm down! She was not an illogical person—she was just scared. She could deal with this. She could deal with this.

With a last, shuddering breath, she forced herself to straighten up and look him in the eyes. "What do you want?" she said, pleased to find that her voice was level, strong.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he said, relieved that she'd stopped screaming. "I mean—I sort of ran off and left you, I wanted to see if you got home all right."

This threw her. "Why?" she said bluntly, trying desperately to see what was in this for him, why he'd come back, why he _cared_. It wasn't _human_. It didn't make any sense.

"I don't leave things unfinished," he said with a blinding smile, and suddenly he wasn't a frightening predator but a young man, attractive, charming. Suddenly she could imagine him out in real life, throwing darts in a bar, flirting with a waitress, _living_. It was a strange thought. "So—you're all right, aren't you? He didn't hurt you?"

"He didn't hurt me," _thanks to you_, added her brain, but she couldn't make herself thank him aloud, couldn't forget the eleven o'clock news.

"Glad to hear it. For future reference—no kissing on the first date. Gives 'em _all_ sorts of bad ideas." The grin again, flashing white against the soft lampglow. Then, suddenly serious. "Did they tell you what happened to him?"

"I—I don't know—"

"He's dead," Dean said harshly, fiercely vengeful.

"Did _you_ kill him?" She was surprised at her nerve, the reproach in her voice.

He gave her a strange look, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Someone's been watching the news," he said sardonically. "Don't believe everything you hear, sweetheart." A beat. "I didn't kill him. There was—an accident. Metal pole punched the son of a bitch straight through the chest.

She wasn't sure she believed him, but she was willing to let it go as long as he was in her house. She wasn't stupid. "Right," she said warily.

"Well, that's all I needed," he said briskly, setting her cell phone on the table. "I'll get out of your house now. Nice to meet you, Hannah, don't date any more rapists, okay?"

He had turned to go, his hand on the doorknob, but she couldn't stop the question bursting out of her. "Why'd you save me?"

He turned back, looking genuinely surprised. There was a long pause, and then, "You needed saving," he said blankly.

"Oh," she said lamely. "Well—thank you."

"Don't mention it," he said, shutting the door behind him.

---

"You do that on purpose, don't you?" Sam said as Dean got back into the car.

"Do what?" Dean demanded, sticking his keys into the ignition.

Sam gestured expressively at the house. "_That_. Show up at these girls' houses in the dead of night, ask them concerned questions, flirt with them, and then disappear off into the sunset never to be seen again. You just _want_ them to be in love you with the rest of their lives, don't you?"

"I can just imagine the stories they tell their friends," Dean said with a self-satisfied grin. "Come on, Sammy, you're just jealous because I always get to save the hot girls."

Sam made a disgusted noise and shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

Dean started the car, swinging his head around to give Sam a _look_. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Shut up."

Black Sabbath burst out of the radio, pulsing through the whole car, through their bodies like a heartbeat, obliterating all thought. Dean pulled the car out of the driveway and tore off down the street, driving the speed that the music demanded. Only seconds, and they were gone.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That's it. Just a two-chapter little ficlet. Thank you so much for the great response! If I'd known what awesome reviewers Supernatural fans were, I'd have been writing for y'all way before this!

I'm working on a new John/Dean-centric fic, so look for me! Thanks again for the reviews!


End file.
